


A Constant Heartache

by JeanRainier



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Character Study, Crimes & Criminals, Demons, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Masochism, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sex Trafficking, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:47:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26507710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanRainier/pseuds/JeanRainier
Summary: A full story launched off an idea from a previous one-shot. A young man caught up in sex trafficking has a chance encounter. What follows is a series of choices and entanglements, each drawing him further from the place he started. In some ways for the better, in others the worse. As he tries to navigate a new city in a new country, everything is further complicated by the underbelly of demons and magic he is drug into. In the pursuit of true freedom, is he willing to sacrifice his soul?(Myriad hardcore sexual scenes and elements planned, as well as unhealthy relationships and self-loathing narratives.)
Kudos: 10
Collections: Product & 7th Demonverse





	1. On The Mend

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Product & The Seventh](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26498950) by [JeanRainier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JeanRainier/pseuds/JeanRainier). 



> This is largely intended as self-indulgent writing to destress. If anyone else manages to enjoy it, I'd be thrilled to hear.  
> The first chapter is largely setup for plot and direction. There's going to be a lot of xxx-rated material throughout, though.

It was framed as benevolence, when he wasn’t expected to work in the handful of days following that night. The event at the club had been violent, to put it gently. Besides his shot voice, busted nose, and split lip there were other damages barring him from working. Swollen wrists ringed in cuts, skinned knees raw at every torn open edge. His mouth and throat were sore to a point eating and speaking was difficult, and even that level of discomfort had nothing on the swollen and torn state of his ass. All told, Cain wasn't currently a suitable presentation for clients. 

Still, he was making the trip down the street to the main building out of habit. His room, like all product's spaces, was more designed for entertaining clients than spending personal time in. Despite the option for warm baths and catching up on sleep, after three days he was out of ways to occupy his time. The television in his room was mostly for _work material_ , should a client request it. They didn't exactly get cable or HBO. Nor was smoking allowed inside the buildings. He had to leave to light up, making the walk from his building down to the main one on the street doubly appreciated. He was burning his way through a menthol light as he took it slow, easing every step to gauge the state of himself. He was doing better today than yesterday. But the scars were still obvious, the swelling and bruises still too distracting. He'd need a few more days before he could get back on the full routine. It was a nerve-wracking thing. A lot of his usual clients were opting for others, in lieu of his _aesthetic condition_. Other people were going through even more, even worse, because of him. Regardless of the fact there was nothing he could do about any of it (the club job hadn't exactly been optional, after all) he still felt guilty.

The kind of guilt that drove him down to the main building on foot, just to see if anyone was lingering around he could talk to or help out.  
The entire street or row houses were all Vito's property. It was a high end set up, by most standards. He liked to keep his landside investment singular and easy to guard and survey. When he came in with new boats of product, they were dropped off and sorted into the vacancies. Each of the brownstone buildings was divided up into hotel-like rooms, all save the building at the dead center of the street. It was set up with a manicured flowerbed and clean windows and signs labeling it outwardly as some kind of youth hostel. Easy to net the stray product-to-be that way, without all the investment it took to kidnap and import from other places. By that measure, Cain himself was an _exotic good_ , though he lacked the label for work. When guys said they wanted exotic, it normally meant fetishizing one of the dark skinned or asian girls. He had yet to have a client pick him up just for his accent, or pale skin, or blonde hair. 

Finishing his cigarette outside, he caught sight of a young woman lingering just before the steps. She had all the signs of ideal prey for a place like that.  
Her clothes were layered and overworn, her long brown hair a tangled mess. Her face was young, though. Not yet marred by the weather or harsh realities of carving a long term living out on the streets. She had an overstuffed backpack on, and her eyes kept scanning the signs all around the front of the place. 

Cain caught her gaze and nodded. When she nervously nodded back, he dropped the last remnant of his cig down and ground it out with his boot heel before hopping down the few steps dividing them.

"Daniel." He introduced himself with his work name, offering her his hand.  
She was wary, but he couldn't blame her. Set right in front of each other, it was all the more obvious how he loomed over her. Cain was tall, especially for an eighteen year old kid. Already a few inches over six feet, he loomed over most people, even his owner. He at least had the advantages of a lean build and soft features. Not enough to get in the market as a fem-boy, but enough to not seem immediately intimidating to most if they could get around his height. 

Unintentionally, he loomed over her. When she hesitated to take his hand, he simply waited and offered a warm smile.  
She stared up at him. Specifically, the side of his face. Past all the healing bruises and the split at his lip that was still prone to splitting open if he smiled or laughed too much. No, she was looking at the oldest of the scars on him, a long strip that ran from temple to cheek and narrowly missed his right eye. Her gaze lingered there for a long moment before she snapped gaze back to the ice blue of his eyes and finally lurched her hand into his. Her grip was weak, tremoring. He shook her hand softly, and quick, and let her retreat from the touch swiftly.

"E.. Esther." She finally offered in return.

"Bonsoir, Esther." He replied on reflex. She gave him a look, face scrunching with uncertainty.

"You're.. That's french." She pointed out. 

At the recognition, Cain couldn't help himself. His grin pulled wide, the cut in his lip threatening to break open again. He didn't notice. Too wrapped up in tucking hands in his pants pockets to keep posture mild even as he gushed readily, "It is!" His accent was overbearingly obvious. Most marked it as 'something foreign', often alongside 'hard to understand'. But she recognized it, and while she sounded thus far perfectly american, he was happy to take what he could get these days. "Parlez-vous?"

Esther shook her head with a guilty look. "No, sorry. I.. took it in college. I don't remember much, though." She shrugged, scrunching down into herself.

Cain didn't let her self-minimizing slow him down any, shrugging casually in return. "It is fine. So, may I ask, why you are coming here?"   
He glanced back over his shoulder at the building. To her, it seemed in indication. Quietly, he was checking if the door guards or anyone else was in sight to see what he was doing. From his angle, no one was.

"Um.." Esther hesitated again. Her gaze trailed the ground, scraping over her boots and then his in small patterns before pulling halfway up as she answered, "They said.. I don't.. I don't have anywhere else to go. So.. They said this place, it takes people in?"

"Ahhn. I see." Cain reached into his back pocket. Esther watched him closely, just to gasp as he pulled into view between them a massive roll of bills.   
Cain uncoiled the handful, quickly glancing up and down the street before flicking out several of the higher bills from the inside of the stack.

"It is not that kind of place." He told her, still smiling. Warm, despite the warning. He folded over the new stack of 100s, and held it out to her. "You should go."

She looked at him, at first in shock. Then, her eyes traced his bruised temple and nose, the bust at his mouth. She glanced sidelong, past him to the front door.  
There was a question, in the way she looked back at him. Something he was used to, when her type came around. The questioning, the concern. The unspoken ask of _should I call someone?_

Cain shook his head, holding the bills out to her further. "Try DHS. Just south of Chinatown."

Esther looked down at the offering, then with trembling hands took the money. She cast him another hesitant glance.  
But when she took the bills, he let them go, pocketing the roll once he coiled it back up. 

Her eyes caught the afternoon light, flashing wet as she hurriedly shoved the money into her jacket pocket.  
Her mouth opened, but words failed. 

Cain just beamed at her, before turning some to head back up the steps.  
"Adieu." He offered over his shoulder to her along the way.

He didn't look back to her before heading inside, but the sound of boots scraping on the pavement and a sniffle breaking the quiet left him feeling relieved.

Inside, the main building lobby was as strangely casual as ever. Two guards were posted on the inside corners by the entrance. One was lost in his phone, the other buried in a newspaper.   
Ahead, the building foyer was cut in half by a desk that barred access to two doors and a staircase that led further on. The only other space open to visitors was an open entranceway to the right that led to an ornate sort of sitting room, available for guests waiting for appointments or seeking a meeting with management. (Say what one would, Vito knew how to run a business for his market. Somewhere above street walkers, and below modern online escort services, they catered to the technologically out of touch and the middle class wanting to pretend they were higher up.)

That particular afternoon, the place was fairly quiet. Not many people liked to book prostitutes during the daylight. But there was one man, lingering by the desk and having a murmured conversation with the young woman tending it.  
Cain recognized Sophia around the broad-shouldered stranger. She was a nice girl, darker skinned with curly black hair down past her shoulders. She got a lot of difficult clients interested in the exoticism of her looks, and in her early days she'd been one of the more vicious fighters. They'd gotten along, in that respect. Same as they still got along, well after being broken and resigning to the business. Even still, she wasn't a particularly good desk worker. Her customer service skills tended to lack finesse, and after her breaking she'd become something more resigned and averse to conflict. It showed in the way her shoulders hunched and her chin tucked, a nervous look in her eyes as she shook her head at the man.

If Sophia was working the desk, it had to mean the other girls usually there were too busy. And if that were the case, logical or not, Cain marked it as a matter of personal responsibility. He wasn't taking clients. That work had to get picked up, somewhere along the line. This could have very well been the end result of his weakness. Stung by that, he wasted no time in approaching the front desk and leaning on it with his elbows. Feigning ignorance to the man there trying to work out business, Cain waved to catch Sophia's attention. 

"Bonsoir, Sophie. I am here for the mail." A bad joke. They didn't have cable, and they _sure as hell_ didn't get mail. But it sounded wonderfully domestic, didn't it?  
Cain turned then, as if only in that moment noticing the man beside him. "Ohh, my apologies, I-"

And then, it all locked up. The smooth words died in his throat. He stared, everpresent smile faltering and fading entirely.

Every time he struggled to sleep the last few days, it had been that face waiting for him on the other side of the attempt.  
Those cold, demanding grey eyes. That harsh jaw, looking constantly grit with some displeasure. The broad set of his shoulders, containing a known amount of power, enough strength to choke with one hand every drop of life and light..

Cain stared at the seventh client from the club job in a frozen panic. Everything about the moment from before that second fled his mind. In that instant, all that existed was that night, as if it had been moments ago.  
And worse still, he knew it should have been a moment that swelled with horror. There should have been the instinct to run. Maybe there was, somewhere deep down. But it was twisted and muddled, warped by too many wrong experiences. Now, in the place his caution should have been, he understood only his racing heart and an inner sense like bright burning. Adrenaline. The kind that should have been fear. But it made him want to laugh, and linger. Made him grin crooked and find new words entirely without thinking.

"You're.. the Seventh." A small huff left him after the words, like the realization was immeasurably funny.

Seventh stared at him, eyes narrowing some. He was wearing a three piece suit, which Cain found weird in a way he couldn't articulate. Had he been wearing a suit, before? It felt somehow too formal, mismatched next to the man's square face and vague scowl. Of all the details of that night, he couldn't recall what the other had been wearing. But he remembered that face. That tanned skin, and dark hair. Those frigid, demandingly critical eyes.

The man turned back to Sophie from his sidelong stare, stating flatly, "That's the one."

Sophie faltered some, nervous disposition helped none at all by the new statement.  
"Uh- He's. He's not taking clients right now, sir. I can-" She started trying to hurriedly explain.

But Cain lifted one hand, pausing the dismissal. Partly to fuel that fluttering strangeness burning through his chest. Partly because he didn't want to know what it would look like, to see Sophie actually tell the man no.  
"I can take him. Just list it as a specialty booking." Then, glancing Seventh up and down, Cain quirked his grin wider. It sharked up harder on the right of his features, showing off that side of his face and the scar by his eye. "It will cost you extra. That alright?"

Seventh stared him down without immediate comment. Cain didn't waver, lavishing the way the moment made his skin crawl.

After the short pause, Seventh pulled from inside his jacket pocket a money clip binding several bills. Slowly, very pointedly, he started flicking them out one by one.  
Cain watched, aware after the first two the man was waiting on him to say when to stop. The mark for how much the booking should actually cost came and went. Cain didn't speak up until he reached the same amount he'd passed off to Esther outside. Only then did he laugh and nod, affirming the payment for Sophie. "That should do it. You can save the rest for a tip, after." He winked, to which Seventh's expression didn't budge.

The man folded the bills over and passed them across the desk. Sophie took the sum, recounted it, and nodded. A few coded marks and notes on the books, and she handed back a key from a rack of them under the desk.  
"Please enjoy your time with us." She said on reflex. She had that part of the desk work down, at least.

Cain was readily trailing away from the desk. Confused. Excited. Curious. Everything, it seemed, but afraid.  
He trailed sidelong, into the smoking room. It, like the left side of the foyer, had a discreet door set towards the upper corner of the room. Like all the row houses, they'd been renovated when bought up. Remodeled to server their new purpose. They all interconnected, violating their viability as housing and becoming closer to the covert hotel-like structure they were meant to be.

Cain's room was two buildings down and one floor up. He led the way through the connected foyers while attempting chatter. None of which was answered or remotely responded to. He was used to it.  
"If I had realized you were coming by, I would have done more." He laughed, gesturing to himself as they took to the stairwell in his building.

Whereas Seventh was done in a three piece, Cain himself wore the usual mandatory 'work uniform'. Part of Vito's standards for the illusion of a classy experience. He had black slacks and a white button up on, though the shirt was untucked and his pants weren't quite fitted correctly, hanging loose on his hips and still not entirely coming to the right measure at his ankles. Still, to the untrained eye, he seemed formal enough. Would have looked like general waitstaff, if he'd bothered to tuck the shirt in.

Seventh found this neither interesting, nor funny.  
Cain carried on, two doors down the hall on the left. There, he stopped and sidestepped with a flourish, to allow Seventh the honor of unlocking the room with the key he'd been given.

He does so, pushing the door open then turning to speak the first words since their time at the desk. Unsurprisingly, its an order, as frigid and unwavering as his commands so many nights ago.

“On the bed.”

Cain grins still, but doesn’t argue or hesitate. He leads the way inside, going straight for the master bed at the center of the room. 

The space is modeled most closely like a hotel, with casual furniture largely removed and only brought in for special bookings. The attached bathroom is similarly void of personalization. The spaces are done in Vito’s tastes, shades of cream and brown broken up by abrupt splashes of white and red for the bedding and stray features. There’s a leather loveseat in white in the far corner, and a flatscreen mounted on the wall.

Everything in the room is meant as an option for use. The white of the sheets and loveseat are intentional for the aesthetic of blood. Hooks along the bed’s bannisters and headboard are for the option of gear and toys. A case is under the bed, hidden initially by the draping sheets. But Cain knows he’s meant to pull it out, to make an offer to the client to start of any toys or tools they may want. 

He ignores it, in the face of the order. He perches on the very end of the bed, vividly aware in those moments how he is bearing the bruises and scars from the work of the man following in after him. Cain isn’t sure how to feel about that.  
Again, where he goes looking for a trace of signaling fear inside himself, he finds only a nervous energy that could have been anything. It felt closer to excitement than terror, though the idea of that somewhat disgusted him.

Was he actually _excited_ to see this man again? No. Why? How could he be? Seventh had been a face in his bad dreams every night since the club job. Tearing him apart, demolishing him just like his breaking all over again.  
Maybe that was why. Why this man, out of all the clients and contexts, was still ringing in the back of his head days later. He just hit a nerve. Too close to the times Vito spent shredding all of who he'd been apart, in order to make him who he now was.

Seventh follows in, closing the door, and comes to stand in front of him at the foot of the bed.

He stares, coldly, as if waiting for something. But he says nothing, asks for nothing else. 

Cain cants his head.  He raises a brow slowly at Seventh, when he still has yet to further things.

Seventh pulls his focus up. He looks around. Trying to make up his mind?

After a moment, he dips away towards the bathroom with only a _“Stay there”_ issued behind himself. He looks around the black and white tiled space, inspecting a few odds and ends before coming back. He looks in a few of the drawers of the dresser. Only one holds clothes, the rest is lingerie and more complicated toys for those who know what they’re doing. He closes them each in turn, not seeming overly interested. The inspection continues to a desk against the far wall, a vase of fresh flowers by the door, and a minifridge of bottled water and various small liquor offerings. 

Finally, once he’s picked through everything there is, he returns to standing in front of Cain. His stare is unreadable. Cain parts lips to finally ask what he wants, thinking maybe, adorably, Seventh is one of those clients that needs to be coaxed and led gently into things. Was the club scene somehow different for him? Maybe he had been high, that night.

But, before Cain can say a word, Seventh tucks just slightly against his collar and speaks quietly.

“It’s clear.” He mutters. 

Cain does not have to wonder what that means. 

In a time years before this country and this work, he was raised to know better.

So rather than confusion, his pulse skitters and flattens. His grin freezes in place on his features. His hands ball to fists against the sheets under him. His gaze flicks immediately to the door, where the knob starts to turn.  
He pushes to get to his feet, a million thoughts racing. Was this a bust? Was he going to get arrested? Deported? The room had no windows. Vito didn’t want people sneaking out. He was basically in a kill box. Nowhere to run.

His attempt to get to his feet is cut off when Seventh presses a hand to his chest and shoves him back down. Cain starts to mentally spin, trying to think of some way if not to overpower then outmaneuver the massive stranger.

Then, the door opens. And there began the meeting that changed the rest of his life.

* * *


	2. Watching Costs Extra

His first thought is to say _You should not be here_.   
Then, he feels grateful. Glad he went by when he did. Glad he caught Seventh, and whatever this was, instead of letting it fall on someone else. 

Cain is not aware by face or even by name of all the movers and shakers in the city. He’s still too new, and barely allowed away from the row houses. People didn’t exactly talk local politics at the clubs and meetings he was occasionally assigned. 

But, he knew how to recognize men of power. He’d grown up around enough of them. He recognized the cut of luxury clothing. The tapered nature of a custom tailored suit. He recognized the innate atmosphere change, when a man in charge entered a room of subordinates. And while only Seventh presumably worked for him, there was no denying the way the man looked at Cain. Like that power, that control, extended even to those not fully aware of his influence or position.

The man himself was older. Silver-white hair swept back in a sleek style. His suit was grey to match, a black undershirt against a crimson tie, half lost in the black vest it tucked beneath. He had an overlayer, a bright red coat around his shoulders that matched the tie. His eyes were thin, a hungry kind of brown that seemed to catch the red in his clothes in the right light. 

He smiled, and it was a thin thing. The kind that made Cain think of the way skin split when cut by a sharp knife. Smooth and even and sickeningly perfect.

The man strode in, leaving Seventh to go behind him and close the door.

He took up the place the guard had been, only on his approach Cain moved away. He pulled himself back on the bed, defensive and wary, still trying to gauge an exit strategy around them both.

Visits from high profile clients weren’t particularly uncommon. Cain was one of the few often selected for such work, either through being Vito’s preferred recommendation, or thanks to the niche nature of his own services and specialties.

But this.. He knew this. This aura, this danger. It oozed with signals of similarity. The man in the red coat was too much like Vito. In control, calmly aware of it. He gave off the impression of territorial competition. Visits from people like that were normally how products wound up dead. Methods of sending a message.

A stupid part of him wants to taunt that the man picked the wrong worker, for that.

But he can’t bring himself to speak. Cain is quiet, humor fled from him. Yet still, even with his chest rise-falling in too quick a tempo, he is thankful. Better him than one of the others.

The man waits until Seventh has the door secured and returns to his side.

Then, with a sidelong glance of manicured appreciation, he looks to Cain and speaks. His voice, like his expression, is coldly smooth and utterly precise. Drenched in the kind of satisfaction born from commanding a situation entirely.

“You’re the boy they call Daniel?” He asks, in a tone that knows the answer.

Cain nods.

“Excellent. I’m to understand payment has already been arranged, at the front desk?”

Another nod.

This time, the man mirrors it, though his is slower and more methodical.

Beside him, Seventh starts to undo his cufflinks. He sets them aside, shucking his jacket shortly thereafter. As he’s working the buttons of his shirt apart, Cain struggles to decide which of them to fixate on. It’s Seventh, up until the other man speaks again.

“I have something I’d like to test, with you.” He explains.

Cain isn’t entirely thinking. Too caught in the maelstrom of the moment. He simply reacts, saying without considering it at all, “Double is extra.”

At this, the silver haired man abruptly laughs. He shakes his head.

“I have no intention of fucking you, don’t worry.”

Cain’s gaze flickers from him to Seventh, who is sliding off his belt.

Again, he speaks in the moment, “Still extra. To watch.”

The amusement doesn’t reach the man’s eyes, even when he laughs again. “I see. Then I’ll make sure to settle the difference afterwards. Alright?” He asks it, but it is not a question.

Seventh turns around, and begins peeling off his vest. He folds it and sets it aside on the desk with his jacket and cufflinks, and then he’s tugging his shirt up from his waistband.

Cain wants to speak. To ask, to demand. He wants the strength and coherency in his mind to flee. When the still dressed man crosses around to perch on the white leather couch, Cain looks to the door. It’s a straight shot. He could go. Maybe, with some luck, he could make it. Get out to the hall. Then what? Run - Run where? Outside? To the main building? Get the guards. Then what? A shoot out? Violence? What about Sophia? What about the other girls, what about the clients who would hear it? No. No, it’s not worth it. It’s not worth it.

Seventh cracks his neck and approaches the space the other man has vacated.

He looks disinterested. The cold of his eyes is set but not with conviction. This is just a job, for him. He looms at the end of the bed, and when Cain abandons the long look towards the door, Seventh reaches down and grabs at his legs just above his knees. He hooks and drags, unceremoniously hauling him down to where he is on his back with legs spread around the larger man’s waist.

Reflexively, Cain swallows thick. And again, he turns to the place fear should have been. And again, he finds it absent. There is a racing pulse, and a hyperawareness of every detail. There is a nervous energy, a bubbling urge to make a joke at the back of his throat. There is a vague notion to fight, and how to go about it to stand a chance. And sickly, ashamedly, there is something else coiled around all those things. A briar constricting him from heart to gut. A prickling, poisonous feeling. He is aware, on some level, he is attracted to the man looming over him. Not in any sense but physical. Maybe, further than that, in a way that is twistedly psychological. But it revolts him. He does not want to look at it, and in lieu of that his mind flees to the other option. He laughs, a bubbling and breathy noise, and in a voice he does not entirely recognize, he jokes flippantly, “So what is the test? How many times your butler here can nut before passing out?”

The man laughs again, airy and polite. Seventh does not. He simply scowls.

“Something like that.” The man in charge agrees, folding one leg over the other and leaning back. He settles in to watch, and at that subtle signal, things begin.

Seventh’s hands pull up from by his knees, to shoving the bottom of his shirt out of the way. He goes for the front of Cain’s slacks, button and zipper in smooth motions. Cain’s chest still works quick, alarmed breaths. He props up on his elbows. But he does not fight it.

This, their onlooker comments on as Seventh starts pulling his pants down off his hips in harsh motions. “You have no intention of fighting back?” He asks, tone curiously amused.

Cain grits teeth. Conflicted. Guilty. He roots in the same reason he always does, to justify the lack of struggle to these things anymore. “He is a paying customer.” He reminds the man, and himself. He cuts a glance over to where the other is sitting, letting Seventh drag his pants down to his knees before pausing long enough to pry his shoes off, then continue. “Why would I fight?”

The man on the couch cants his head some, considering that. 

Then he remarks, “I’m told you fought, at Velvet.”

“That was the job.” Cain defends, as Seventh’s hands move mechanically to the buttons of his shirt. Normally, Cain took care of these things himself. Made a show of it, teasing and slow. Partially to hide how much he struggled with buttons on his own. This spared him that aspect, as much as he was simply disinterested in making it a show when something was so clearly wrong.

“I see.” The boss hummed. “And if I make that the job, here? You would fight?”

Cain looks away from him, then. Up at Seventh. At the hands he knows the strength of. He can still remember the force of that choking, in between the maddening rounds of edging until he broke down into frantic pleading. At least this time, he is not worn down by a string of other clients. But he is still on the mend, and with pants shucked it is more clear the damage still healing. His thighs are littered with bruises and his knees are still skinned violently and trying desperately to close. 

“Violent exchanges are extra. Specialty charge.” Cain sounds more stable than he feels.

The boss laughs anew at this, delighted in some strange way. 

Things briefly go quiet, and Seventh stills and straightens, looking to the other for direction on how to proceed. He takes time, to make his mind up, in which Cain is unwilling to look at him. He focuses instead on Seventh. A brute of a man, while not entirely taller than him when they’re standing, is easily twice his size in sheer mass. Undressed as he is, Cain is aware in that moment that he never fully peeled his clothes off last time. Now, seeing him properly exposed, that boiling, guilty thrill in his blood doubles.

Seventh’s collar is a hard line of bone cutting through a well-maintained frame of muscle. It’s very clear he’s the boss’ guard, built as he is and decorated here and there with lines and splashes of lighter scar tissue through his tanned skin. There are strips across his shoulders and forearms that Cain can recognize as knife wounds. The kind of cuts one would get from defensively taking a lashing strike from someone. Then, at the joint in his left shoulder, there is a starburst patch. A gunshot wound, old by the looks of it. He doesn’t move with the articulation issues of a person who took a bullet.

Or, perhaps more accurately, of a human who took one.

Cain’s stomach knots sickly. Some part of him understands what this is, but he doesn’t want to acknowledge it. If he ignores it, runs from it, maybe it can be avoided. Escaped.

Boss makes up his mind, finally. “I would like to see you fight, yes. I want you to struggle like your life depends on it. Your body, I’m aware, means very little to you at this point. So I want to see you fight like you’re going to be killed if you don’t.”

He looks to Seventh, a deep stare that Cain doesn’t catch. There is meaning in it. Instruction.

Seventh nods affirmative, and Cain watches him do so. He feels the bottom of his stomach drop out into an endless cold.

They know. Do they know? They must.

He is reeling, electric. And again, he finds only static where his terror should be.

Seventh looks down at him. Still that detached, disinterested stare. He seems to be waiting, trying to find some signal that Cain is prepared, or simply giving him the time to do so whether or not its put to use.

After a beat of pause, he pulls his hands back. It is a slow, telegraphed thing when he coils one arm back and up into a downward blow. Cain rolls more on instinct than anything else, nearly rolling clear off the bed as Seventh barrels his fist down into the sheets. 

Before he can keep going and roll onto his feet on the floor, Seventh recovers enough to lock a vice grip around his forearm, wrenching him back to the center of the bed. Cain struggles, trying to twist and find some way to pry his grip enough to slip free of it. But Seventh is an inarguable force. Something that cannot be denied. He advances, until he has a knee on the end of the bed, and is starting to loom his full weight over the blonde.

Cain seeks leverage, hooking a heel against the man’s sternum, pressing there and trying to shove with the force to make distance or break bone in the attempt. Seventh doesn’t seem to care, bearing down on him without flinching, getting his other knee up onto the bed. All Cain succeeds in is being pushed back against the sheets, further towards the pillows and headboard, further under Seventh as he winds up another blow. This time, it is not telegraphed and restrained. There is a mercilessness to the force of it, landed straight to Cain’s gut with follow through.

Automatically, he makes a wounded noise and curls around the impact, struggling to fold onto his side around the arm Seventh still has locked in his grasp. Cain balls up on himself, gasping against the sense of suffocation from the blow. He gags against his own wishes, sick from the hurt. 

Seventh waits. The boss watches.

Cain shudders, free arm reflexively coiling against his stomach as if to guard it from anything further. He pants harshly, shuddering. From unsteady periphery, he can see Boss quirking a brow.

“I’ve seen bigger men unravel at a straight hit like that.” He comments. His tone implies its a compliment, but Cain struggles to hear anything in it but a sense of almost-mocking. He sounds passively amused, too satisfied and too arrogant. 

When he doesn’t untangle and keep fighting after a moment, Seventh grabs his other arm and forces him over onto his back again. Cain shudders, trying to hook a heel into Seventh’s hip, trying to find an angle with enough leverage to separate them. Despite knowing what to do and how to do it, the attempt fails. He shoves and squirms, but his strength is not enough. Seventh slides up between his legs, transferring his grip from forearms to wrists. When he cinches his hold down as tight as he can, it squeezes the rings of swelling bruises and half-healed cuts from the handcuffs nights ago.

Cain does not yelp in pain, but he does distinctly gasp, muscles trembling and an automatic streak of something enlivening bringing his back to arching. In the process, his hips roll, grinding him somewhat against Seventh’s lap.

“Do you like it?” The boss pipes up again from the couch.

Again, his tone is bemused. Taunting. Cruel.

Cain grits teeth. It’s all he can do, so he forces his head aside, glaring at the wall opposite where the man sits. Seventh moves, just slightly. Answering the writhing against his lap by pressing further forward, against the squirming. Cain is oblivious to the sense of his erection there, throbbing every time they brush against each other. He is more aware of the pain in his wrists, a dull kind of bassline pounding where the bruises and cuts are still being crushed between his fingers.

When Cain doesn’t answer, there is again some silent exchange between the two. Then, Seventh leans down over him. Cain squirms, kicking and thrashing, but ultimately unable to escape as the man dips towards his shoulder and opens his mouth.

There is a sound Cain recognizes, wet and breathy, and he is aware only through that when Seventh drags his tongue over his skin. He doesn’t react, not even to shudder against it. But when teeth suddenly drive against and then into his skin, it is immediate. Cain jerks, gasping hard, arching off the bed again and further grinding himself against Seventh’s hard cock. He squirms, pulling at the hands pinning his wrists, and a noise cracks out of his throat. It is not entirely a sound of pain. Shock, moreso. Beneath that, something closer to a strained elation. 

From the couch, there is a low hum of laughter.

Seventh keeps digging his teeth in, a growling thrum rumbling out of him as Cain continues to struggle and gasp-moan at the force splitting his skin. As Cain’s writhing worsens, Seventh rocks against him, driving the friction harder against himself. It births a cycle, as his aching cock makes him bite down harder, earning more choked noises and fruitless struggle, making him rut against the blonde more and bite down further to keep earning the movements.

It goes for seconds that stretch like hours until the boss speaks up with a warning clip, “Enough.”

Simply as that, Seventh’s teeth retreat. He pulls up, still not letting Cain’s wrists go.

When he sits up, Cain shudders and stubbornly bites back a whimper. He glares up at the man, just to get fixated on the red around his lips. Blood. He’s bleeding. And at that, the situation lays over him with an all new weight.

Seventh pulls on his wrists harshly, dragging him down some so their hips are harshly interlocked. He doesn’t move, but he does inhale hard and deep as Cain tremors in his grasp and lap.

“You’re not fighting back.” Boss comments.

Cain hisses, sucking in air around the bright throbbing in his shoulder. “What do you want me to do? He’s stronger than me.”

“I want you to try.” Boss cuts, jarringly cold. The mirth and mocking in his tone suddenly absent. “I want you to care enough to make the attempt.”

There’s a sound of movement, and then the man is looming beside the bed. Staring with his smile absent, cold and disdainful. Cain can’t hold his gaze, looking away uncomfortably after a halfsecond of their eyes meeting.

“You gave up before he ever touched you.” The man sighs, disappointed.

Cain grits, hands shuddering as they ball to weak fists. But he says nothing.

“I know what he’s done to you.” The man says. 

Cain flinches. Moreso than the driven punch to his gut or the skin splitting bite at his shoulder, it’s those words that land the hardest. Drive down to his very bones and make everything else drop away. He doesn’t look back at the man, but there’s nothing else in existence but his voice when he continues, “I know what you are. Same as I’m sure you know what we are. So let’s stop pretending, shall we?”

Cain doesn’t want to look. He doesn’t want to be right. He doesn’t want it to be true.

But he knows. Even without sound to signal the change, he knows. There is a shift to the atmosphere, a kind of energy to the room like charged air before a lighting strike. 

Out the corner of his eye, he can see the boss’ skin change from human pale to an ashen color. The brown of his eyes becomes a bright, drilling red that almost glows in the dim ambiance of the room. He stands there, staring, waiting. But it’s not over.

Without clothes to hinder and hide most of it, Seventh’s change is more clear. His skin darkens to a red-brown like baked clay, hardening and jutting at the joints like armor. Smooth and plated across the back of his arms, his knees, his fingers. The hands grasping at Cain’s wrists are plated and taloned, and when he squeezes again Cain can feel the pinprick points of skin popping into new breaks. Seventh’s features go hard and scales scatter up his cheeks and down his throat, across his collar and shoulders. His eyes burn a phosphorescent white against full black sclera. 

Cain can’t deny it, but he fights fully acknowledging it. If only for the fact the truth of what they are lays out very clearly how the rest of his day is going to go. When he says nothing, still struggling to turn his head away from it, it is the boss lingering by the bedside that makes it inescapable.

“I had hoped for better, from you. So be it.” A sigh, a shrug. He backs away a step, seeming now disinterested. But Seventh does not move to disengage.

“You paid for the hour.” He comments on his way towards the door. “Use it as you wish. Just make sure to verify our theory about him before it’s over.”

The soft click of the door opening, closing thereafter.

There is a stillness, in the man’s wake. A moment where neither of them left behind move. No one says anything. For a moment, Cain is tempted to close his eyes and try to will it all away. To pretend it is not happening, it is not real. But he knows better. That is not how these things work. And all contexts aside - he has a job to do. He’s already been paid.

Seventh is the one to break the stillness, bending down to lap at the wounded shoulder, stealing more blood from the welling flesh. There is the thought of warning, but Cain supposes it doesn’t matter. If he drinks too much. If he loses control. Maybe it’s better, that those things happen. It would make it quicker. Seventh licks and groans and grinds his hips forward harshly against him.

Cain grits his teeth. Closes his eyes. He tries his best to prepare for the reality that he is going to die.


	3. Humiliation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings : Non/Dubcon , Shame/Humiliation kink , Hints towards Misgendering kink (may come up more in later chapters) , Physical Violence , Soft Character Death

Usually, he has a different space for work. A different mindset. 

Normally, for the casual walk-in clients, he can play confident and easy. Most of them are nervous, uncertain. Closeted and curious, afraid of judgement. Lonely. They are human men, fragile and left wanting by the coldness of their society. Normally, for them, Cain is proud of his work. He is happy he can do something to help those people. Even if it’s only temporary. Even if it’s superficial. He can’t make the problems in their lives go away. But for a while, he can let them have a place they don’t exist. Somewhere they can experiment and play and be whoever they are without being judged or hurt for it. He takes pride in that. Becomes someone else, through that. Someone calm and confident and warm. Someone who is certain, and steady. Someone who can oblige desires with an ease and eagerness.

That place, and that person, are absent in this exchange.

Seventh is not human. He is not here for himself. This is work, for both of them. Part of bigger systems and other people’s machinations. He is here to test his boss’ theory, and knowing that, Cain fails to find the place he settles for work. This is personal. 

It does not help that Seventh’s every move reminds him of that night at the club. The utter shame, the broken mindlessness. The things he’d said, and done, hurried and desperate. The things that had been done to him - by Seventh, by the others. Over and over, all with an audience. He’d yet to unpack it all. Didn’t want to. Thought it better to bury it, move on.

But that was impossible with the man looming over him, grinding against him, lapping blood from his shoulder unglamoured and exposed for what he was. Cain was well aware demons existed. Not all of Vito’s products were so lucky. Most of them saw their situation simply as prostitution, trafficking. No more and no less. Vito was just another scum of the earth human man, capitalizing on suffering to make his money. If the truth was better or worse, Cain still wasn’t sure. But he knew it. And it made him well aware, as Seventh’s teeth came around his shoulder again, what was at stake as new punctures drove their way through his flesh.

A choked gasp, fitful writhing. He squirmed, kicking at bed sheets, doing little more than providing more friction for the demon to buck against. As Seventh momentarily lost himself in the intoxication of human blood, Cain struggled to find any semblance of composure. A better headspace, an angle he could justify it all from. Something, any shred of sympathy, to make the situation somehow more digestible. 

It was the only way he’d learned to get through the work. Vito had made damn sure he wasn’t one of the ones able to zone out and go somewhere else. To become a quiet shell for the harder clients. No, he wanted coherency. He wanted everything to be deliberate, manicured. He wanted a product that could serve with consciousness and clarity. And Vito always got what he wanted.

The issue now was that Seventh was hardly a typical client. Neither a casual walk-in nor one of the pre-booked types who sought some specialty. This wasn’t a direct kink list Cain knew to cater to. It wasn’t some friend of Vito’s who needed to be shown a good time to help the business. This was complicated, half veiled behind the unknown intentions of the man’s boss. There would be consequences, long reaching effects, from whatever he chose to do here.

Caught up in that, drowning in the details of it, he could barely focus on the actual moment. Too concerned with the potential effects of every breath and movement on some far flung future.

Seventh pulled up from a second gnawing at Cain’s shoulder, breathing heavy through the haze. He wasn’t quite blood drunk, but getting there. His grip on the younger’s wrists coiled and eased in strange rhythm. For a few moments, he just sat up to breathe more open air and keep himself under control. 

Cain stayed focused on the far wall. Unsure how to feel. What to do. 

Seventh moved, ground against him again, and Cain flinched.

“You’re hard.” The demon stated flatly. His voice was like that night. Cold, inarguable. Crushing in the heavy, low nature of it. Despite simply stating a fact, he made it sound like some order. Demanding a response.

Cain grit teeth and openly grimaced before forcing an answer.

“I know.” Pushed out around his teeth.

Seventh scoffed briefly, rocking hips in a more deliberate fashion, grinding them together slowly.

It didn’t garner much reaction from the blonde, who simply kept his head turned and lips pursed.

“Do you want to?” Seventh asked. It was open-ended, but Cain knew what he meant. The repeating movements, practically humping him, made it more than clear.

“It does not matter.” Cain responded low, grave with the reality of the situation.

“That’s not what I asked.” Seventh said, somewhere between a growl and a purr. He seemed amused by the situation. Enjoying it, as Cain refused to look at him and stayed tense beneath him. He leaned down, bearing over the human, resisting the urge to dip to his shoulder again.

Cain fought a tight inhale into his lungs, having to force the breath around nerves and tension. He said nothing, because he wasn’t sure what to say. This was not a matter of what he wanted. That kind of thing couldn’t afford to be factored in. This was a job. He had a job to do. And yet..

Seventh could have easily bit through the tendons and muscle of his shoulder. Could have held him down and torn him apart. Even reserving himself to only human strength, he’d proven as much at the club. He could get whatever he wanted. He was a cold, demanding force that knew when to be patient. Was this part of that? A manipulation? Did he enjoy this kind of game, on top of everything else? Cain got lost in the train of thought, and it took the demon harshly jerking against him to snap him back out of it.

Seventh pulled down on his wrists and pinned them deep against the bedding. He thrust his hips, driving his cock ineffectually against the blonde’s ass before settling so tightly together there was no room to squirm or pull back. Arched off the bed, all Cain could do was ball fists against the pain in his wrists and grit teeth. 

“You never answered him.” Seventh pointed out. Clarifying a moment after, “Do you like it?”

Cain flinched. Again, said nothing. Uncertain. Ashamed.

Seventh abruptly rumbled a laugh. Noticing something Cain had not. Something that seemed to sincerely amuse him, in a dark sense, as he thrummed with the humor and held their forced interlocking steady.

“Is it the pain?” He asked, then paused. Watching. Waiting for a response that did not come.

“Or do you like being broken down?”

Cain snapped focus onto him directly. Heart racing blood boiling warning cracking out of him in an instant, “Do not.”

“ _Do not_ , what?” Seventh laughed again. Mocking his accent deliberately, the lack of contractions that plagued his attempts at english. 

Cain failed to further answer. Caught between the hostile tension and the realization amidst it that Seventh seemed more relaxed, in this context. At the club, he’d been remote and cold and demanding. He’d walked with a defensive prowl and professional focus. Now, laughing and lingering in close, he felt more alive. More.. natural. More himself. It unnerved Cain, as much as it fed that sick part of him. The briar, the poison. The part that needed to cling to sympathy to survive. He knew what was happening. Knew it was wrong. Couldn’t stop it.

Seeing Seventh act more casual made this seem closer to real. Made what they were doing feel more like the casual clients. Someone looking for somewhere to relax. A service Cain could offer. Something he could feel good for having done.

It was at odds with the shame and revulsion coursing under his skin as the demon loomed over him and continued to press, “You want me to, don’t you? Why not just admit it?”

Cain jerked abruptly, trying to rip himself somehow free. Trying desperately, fruitlessly, to break the holds at his wrists or the entanglement of his body pinned against and around the other. For all his fighting, he earned nothing but more pain through his arms and shoulder, an exhaustion of energy he knew he would want later. 

Seventh let him have his struggle, doing nothing to cut the resistance off. He let it run its course, let Cain wear himself out and settle again before continuing the unrelenting assault. “You’ve got more pride left than I’d expect from a whore.”

Cain flinched again as if struck. Falling back to desperately looking away, trying to find something else to focus on. But there was no escaping Seventh or the deep toned words that kept rolling out of him.

“Is that what does it for you? Being reminded you’re a slut for hire?” Cain shut his eyes. Heard his teeth grind all through his skull. He shook his head, too hard, made dizzy with the force as Seventh stayed over him. “A cocksleeve for whoever shows up with enough money?”

“Stop.” Cain hissed, a new round of struggling erupting from him.

Told to fight like his life depended on it, he’d barely managed anything. But now, under this, his every instinct lashed to find some way out. Too little, too late.

“Don’t deny it. It’s obvious. Now you want to be _my_ cocksleeve.”

“ _Stop!_ ”

“Why should I?” Seventh laughed and it sounded real. Earnest. Mirthful and easy, relaxed. Like he’d let some weight go, found something genuine. He sounded happy. And a part of Cain resonated with that. Felt pride, from that. It immediately burnt and turned to ice and churned his stomach into something acidic. Furious. Ashamed. Disgusted with himself. How could he feel that way? Towards a man like this? What the fuck was wrong with him? The thoughts spiraled in a heartbeat, until Seventh abruptly cut everything to a dead halt.

“Just look at yourself.” He said, still saturated in that genuine bemusement. “You’re so _wet_.”

He emphasized the word on purpose and Cain recoiled, a whine slipping out of him that sounded more hurt than any reaction he’d had to the abuse and pain beforehand. 

He didn’t want to look. But his eyes cracked open. His head turned. 

Driven by some cruel self-loathing, he did look. 

His own cock was painfully hard, catching the dim lights in a shine of precum. 

“That’s-” he can’t get the words out. Can’t argue. Can’t deny it. He wants to tell Seventh to stop, even knowing it won’t do anything. He wants to point out that word is used for _female_ products, which he _isn’t_ , but he knows that was the point. It’s gutting in a way he can’t describe. Crushing and terrible. He feels small. He feels ashamed. And as those feelings hit and wash through, he sees what Seventh has been laughing about all along.

As the horror and constricting ache in his chest runs out in a tight throbbing, his cock twitches. A tension and bobbing, sending a string of pre oozing down in a pathetically desperate mess. He understand the man’s amusement, then. And while Cain cannot feel the heat swallowing his face in a violent shade of red, he can feel everything else. The utter fragile embarrassment, the sensation like his whole chest is some kind of glass cracking and caving in on itself. He doesn’t know what to do, what to say. He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, and against his will a noise slips out of him as he does. It’s fragile and small, wounded and pleading.

Seventh thrums with a noise deep in his chest, a demonic purr of satisfaction at the sight. He squeezes Cain’s wrists and ruts against him anew, and as the sound of pleasure makes Cain the smallest flicker of proud, the cycle repeats. Pride to shame to weakness, spurring Seventh into another darkly aroused rumble.

Cain can’t even manage to choke another order-plea for him to stop. It’s too much. He’s drowning in it, and as the fight in him fades to a weak attempt to recoil and ball up on himself, Seventh takes over with a renewed hunger. He keeps the body under him pinned as it is, starting to move quicker as his own pre slicks the ass he’s been rutting against, making each grinding of his hips further slide his cockhead between the blonde’s cheeks. 

“You’re so fucking pathetic. Are you going to get off on this? I bet I could make you cum without ever getting my cock inside you.” It’s cruelty. There is no denying that. It’s largely the point. But when Cain flinches and writhes and his own erection bobs from the words, Seventh can’t help himself. It’s more than just the sense of power that comes from toying with him. More than the taste of blood still on his tongue enlivening him. He’s never met a human like this, before. One so twisted up on itself as to find pleasure in torment. A part of him does seriously wonder if he could do it - make the fragile thing cum just with words. The idea alone of trying fills him with a sadistic amusement.

“What happened to all that fight? Not going to tell me to stop anymore?” He watches as Cain strains to press his face against the sheets, to turn as far away as he can. His eyes are pressed shut but still there is a wetness that starts to well past it. Seventh shudders at the sight. “Then admit it. Say it out loud. Say you’re enjoying this, like the fucked up little thing you are.”

Abruptly, Cain bursts into a new wave of fighting. His weight throws from side to side, tearing at the holds against his wrists. He bucks and struggles against the hips pressing into his, trying to pull legs free from around the demon’s waist to lash out with. He raises, when it doesn’t work, and the motion is quick and unexpected enough he makes solid contact. He headbutts the demon, cracking his forehead into Seventh’s nose. Unfortunately, human skin against that dense plating stands no chance. Cain succeeds in startling him, and busting his own forehead open. 

When he falls back against the bed dazed and starting to bleed anew, Seventh erupts into a real and thrilled laughter. He rocks with it, booming through the room. Elated at the genuine thrill of being caught off guard. 

As the sound echoes through the otherwise quiet space, Cain shudders.

He hates how much he likes that sound. How much a part of him coils warm and pleased at having caused it. It churns, mutating. Feeding further the cycle of pride to disgust to shame. 

“Just-” he cracks, when he can’t take it anymore. “Just fuck me! _Please_.”

_Please, please, just let it be over. Just let this be over_. He would take another night at that club over this. At least that, sex and physical pain and agonizing teasing, weren’t as _painful_.

Seventh is only further amused by the pleading.

“I will.” He agrees, lowering back down with his unbroken nose. He grins, even if Cain is refusing to open his eyes to see it. His voice drops, something dangerously quiet, as if becoming more of a secret just between the two of them. “Once you say you’re enjoying this.”

“I’m not!” Cain thrashes again, if for no other reason than to not accept the moment without struggle. Seventh squeezes him harder, purrs like rolling thunder at the sight and feel of it.

“You’re not?” He teases, feeling his cock moving that much easier, slick between the smaller’s ass. It’s maddening. He wants to bury himself hilt deep, but holds back. Ever the professional. “You’re not at all? Then why are you so wet for me?”

“Stop..” This time, he manages the protest out as a whine, weakening against it. Because he knows, despite the struggle and argument, that hot flash thrill through his system travels straight down. And while he doesn’t look and can’t entirely feel it the way someone else would, he knows when his cock twitches needily at the insult and his body shudders helplessly at the shame.

“Stop what? Telling you the truth?” Seventh finally pulls back precious inches, enough to give himself the room to angle. It’s clumsy, without a hand to guide his own cock. But he’s not willing to let go of either wrist, sure there would finally be a real fight now that he’s found the nerve to hit. So he grinds himself against the blonde until he’s messily prodding his tip against the smaller’s hole. Pressing there, he finally stills, satisfied with the new angle. “Still want me to stop?”

Cain says nothing. He trembles. His face is wet and flushed. He looks amazingly, unbelievably human. Fragile and swollen and hurting. Seventh is tempted again towards his shoulder, but restrains. Still aware he has a job to do, amidst all else.

“You’re soaking fucking wet for me. It’s driving you wild. The pain. The _humiliation_.” He emphasizes the word by pressing forward, feeling the resistance of the blonde’s tight asshole. He doesn’t want to risk pushing too hard and having to reorient to get the angle back. So he’s patient, surrendering no ground but falling still again as he keeps the blonde rooted against him.

“What kind of sick thing gets off on being broken, huh? How fucked up do you have to be, for that to be what gets you off?” Seventh laughs.

Cain whimpers, a noise that drags like a wounded animal. It’s keening and finally giving up all pretense at not being powerless and pleading. He doesn’t even say anything anymore, instead whining in intermittent bursts in place of the begging for the words to stop. Accepting that they won’t, he remains caught between the conscious shame and unconscious thrill of how each new statement hurts him.

Seventh measures each moment, before obliging further.

“This is all you wanted from the moment I walked in. To be held down and torn apart. I bet you were thinking about it in the lobby, weren’t you? Wanting me to bend you over that desk, show everyone what a pathetic little slut you are. Is that what you want? Want me to go get them - the guards, that girl. Want them to see how you fall apart into a dripping mess for cock?”

A choked noise. A whimper that hitches, breaks. He’s close to crying, fighting it still. It’s one part sadism, that has Seventh pushing even still. One part something more twisted in its sincerity. As fucked as the situation was, it’s undeniable the effect its having. He wants to see it to its peak, in every way he can. Not entirely for his own benefit. Just mostly.

“No, I bet they all know you’re a cockwhore. So good at your job. Your boss’ little favorite.”

That earns a particular flinch and whimper. Seventh makes a mental note.

“But do they know how much you love it? How much you get off on being told? It’s one thing to do your job. It’s another thing to love it this much, to get hard just from being made fun of. How pathetic is that - you’re going to cum just from me telling you how much of a worthless little cocksleeve you are?”

He can feel it, when the smaller’s hole spasms against him. He takes the chance, pushing further against him, sliding that extra bit more against the heat. It’s damn near mind breaking. It’s all he can do to drive nails into the human’s wrists, to hold back from railing him into oblivion. He can feel that it’s almost there. Almost to the breaking point. He takes a breath to steady himself. Thighs starting to shudder. He holds himself together, grinds his teeth between the words. Has to pick the next ones carefully, to keep upping the ante. It’s a puzzlebox, shuddering in his lap. He has to solve it before he cracks. Has to read and measure what points to hit, to get what he needs the fastest.

Seventh swallows thick, tremoring slightly against the tempting heat and pressure teasing his cockhead.

“Come on. Say it. Say it and I’ll stop. Say how you enjoy this, how much you love it. And I’ll bury my cock in you and let you cum for me again. I know you want it.” Seventh rocks, just barely. Daring the motion even at risk of losing the angle he’s set up. Everything is so slick, he worries the wrong move will make him slide out of place and ruin all his composure. But he risks it, for that extra bit of maddening movement. He can feel it pay off when in one quick motion his head buries entirely in the tight hole.

Simultaneously, he groans with frustrated restraint, and the human under him cracks his voice into a sharp cry that bleeds into words, “ _S’il-_ P-please. Please. I- _Je ne peu- Please!_ ”

Seventh bites the inside of his cheek. He wants to tear the thing under him apart. But it’s important, this process. This teasing, this testing. Not entirely to the job, but to him. Enough so he keeps holding back, taking out the frustration of not being able to rail the rest of his cock into the smaller by pulling his arms down harder, forcing him further down. Strain on the wounded shoulder doesn’t seem to garner much reaction, but as another inch of his length fights its way inside the human with nothing for lube but pre, a new noise of pain-pleasure crests into frantic, choked words.

“It is too m- I- I enj- _Please!_ ” The words stagger and stumble over each other. Soaked in an accent that makes them all the harder to parse. Seventh understands enough, from the tone and hurry. There is still a struggle, a resistance. One foot too solidly on the side of coherency and self-control. 

Like before, he wants it gone. He wants nothing left in the smaller but obedience. More than that, he wants him to be untethered. Released from all the things that keep him tied to that holding back. The pride, the shame, the fear. He wants it gone, wants to see the smaller mindlessly obey every command without hesitation. 

This holding back, this clinging to his own ashamed thoughts, is in the way.

Seventh is aware his last attempt was just shy of the mark, to get him this close but not breaking. He measures the moment again. Holds fast to where he’s at. Takes a breath to steady, and bears more of his weight down overtop the fragile thing. Then, confident he knows the line where he aimed wrong, he tries again.

“I’m going to fuck your tight little hole raw all over again. And you’re going to love it, like you did the other night. Like you are right now. All a slut like you is good for is getting filled with cock and cum, and you know it. I’m going to pump you full until you can’t take it anymore.” He can tell its working, when the shuddering mounts into something constant and harsh. When he can feel the heat around his cockhead spasming and the human's hips jerk, grinding down to take more of him in. The blonde’s ass is a vice around his cock, nearly blinding out all coherency for words and focus. It’s mostly by miracle he’s able to keep it together enough to keep forcing the words out, driven on the instinct of knowing the more he keeps up the better it’s going to feel as the human keeps taking him in. “Tell me. That’s an order. Tell me you love being a pathetic little cocktoy.”

There is trembling, and the choked sounds of crying, and a cracking in the throat as a final resistance. Then, as Seventh is sure he’s at the end of his patience and composure, he hears the little thing under him croak weakly, “I l- _love it_. P-Please. I am y-yours. Your.. _toy_. Please.”

It’s not perfect. But it’s good enough. He can’t fight for perfection anymore, can’t take another round of trying to outline the human’s weaknesses and keypoints. This is plenty, and what starts as a relieved rumble of satisfaction in his chest keeps building as the realization sweeps fully through him. No more need to hold back. He’s free to do as he likes, now.

“That’s a good little whore.” He growls hungrily, before pulling his hips back and forcefully dragging his cock back out the precious inches won through the long struggle. When he lets one wrist go to grab his base, he’s confident there will be no retaliation. There isn’t. Legs shiver and curl around his waist, and he reaches down to angle himself with a swift ease this time. When he lines up and thrusts forward, he buries several inches of his cock in the smaller in one go. His own head goes back, groaning with elation and relief, as the human under him cries out sharply. Seventh doesn’t care. He can’t begin to think about it. His assignment has made it clear there will be no consequences, no matter how hard he goes, so he sees no point in holding back. It's his reward for playing the game so patiently, up to that point.

When he lets go of his cock, his hand slams into the bed by Cain’s shoulder.

Cain turns his head, crying out in a harsh pant against the armored skin there. It’s blinding. Stuck so often in a body lacking outward sensation, when he feels the harsh pressure of the demon’s cock driving into him, it’s stunning. The kind that takes his breath away and leaves him nauseated with a too full sensation. He squirms and struggles, but there is no escape and no patience left. When he writhes and rolls hips to get away from the invading pressure, the last hand holding him down moves to his hip. Talons puncture skin in easy pops of pain, digging in and holding him down as hips jerk back and forward again, seeking another inch inside. 

Cain cries out, overwhelmed. It makes no difference. When his hands find Seventh’s shoulders and rake nails, it does virtually nothing to the jutting armor there. There is nothing he can do but scream, and cut himself on the demon’s sharp edges, as he is thrust into again and again. The slickness of pre runs out fast, and when more arrives he knows from experience it is blood that minorly eases the forced fucking. 

He wanted this. He invited it. Begged for it. He tells himself that in hazy waves, as pain and carnal pleasure wash and muddle his coherency away. He’s left adrift, drowning in it violently as Seventh fucks him down into the bed mercilessly. The time for talking passes. There is no more barbing or prying, no more trying to make twisted conversation out of the pleasure-displeasure. The game was won, and in its wake Seventh takes what he’s earned. 

When he finally manages to bury himself completely, Cain arches off the bed entirely, digging his head into the sheets and breaking nails on the demon’s armored shoulders as he struggles to find purchase. Seventh rumbles with a thunderous satisfaction, shuddering like a dog in heat at finally having his cock buried entirely in the other. 

It is a brief lapse, where neither of them move. The smallest respite of quiet and calm before Seventh roots his other hand in Cain’s hip, breaking skin and digging in further. Harsher. It goes beyond pinprick points and begins to sincerely stab into him, every talon a knife piercing his flesh. When he abruptly jerks himself out, using those points of leverage, Cain is aware of the horrific sensation of claw on bone. He shouts a cry of startle and pain and sickly elated pleasure. When Seventh rams deep into him again, the noise in his throat hitches guttural and mindless. Hands flee from shoulders to sheets, fisting and knotting in them deliriously. Seventh holds him possessively, cruelly. He fucks into him like a mindless animal, a hungry and uncaring beast. Cain realizes, as he feels pain tear through him and start to override the pleasure, it is as was promised. He is being fucked, filled, used - like a toy. A cocksleeve, held fast and squeezed tight and jerked with inhuman force up and down the demon’s throbbing length. No more than a hole, a toy. Something to be fucked and filled to it’s user’s content.

And it is with that realization he loses himself entirely. Melting, falling. Evaporating into the motions and the moment. Aware that he is safe. Not from harm, but the deeper dangers of entanglement. He is safe then from kindness. From love. Because neither exist in the way Seventh fucks him. He is being used as an object. Fulfilling a purpose. Giving someone else pleasure in his existence. Cain is happy, then. To be used. To feel useful. To be filled to his breaking point with swelling cock. He feels himself mounting, cresting, burning alive with the satisfaction. 

He pants and hitches and sobs, the agony overwhelming and the pleasure refusing to cease for it. It confuses him, the way he feels. The way it can hurt so much and yet still, he can feel the precipice of orgasm coming up to greet him regardless. 

He shouts something - he knows that much. What it is, what language its in, escapes him. But he understands the sound of his voice cracking through the room as he comes closer and closer, frantic with the building energy and overwhelming sensation. 

When he cums, it is blinding and delirious. He loses track of everything else. There is just an electric, suffocating sea in all directions. He falls apart into it, losing track of where hurt ends and satisfaction begins. They’re all the same. He is alight with it, vibrant and aware of himself. Connected for once to his flesh and bones, aware his body is his own as he feels every inch of it thrum with pleasure.

Seventh rakes talons down his side, scoring him torso to hips. They are deep and awful wounds, but the pain blends into everything else. The shock and horror of it is lost. Cain is simply happy. Because he watches, as Seventh trembles and throws his head back, entire body quaking with his own release. He feels the pounding surge of wave after wave of cum. He feels it push at him, inside out. Feels the pressure mount to a point he understands should be painful. But it floods him, presses against his every sensitive inch. Makes him all the more aware of the way his body lights with pleasure and wracking stimulation. He doesn’t care that it’s too much. Doesn’t care that he’s torn apart. Doesn’t care that he’s bleeding into the sheets. Doesn’t care that he’s going to die. For the moment, there exists only pleasure. And he is happy, to exist as nothing more than a tool for that.

Seventh rides out his orgasm balls deep inside him, and when it starts to abate and he is left panting and going weak, he tears himself free. A surge of cum rushes out as the pressure is released. Cain expects him to collapse aside him on the bed, or stalk off for a long shower. 

Instead, Seventh wraps a hand around Cain’s spent cock. The second he starts to stroke, the sensation is blaring. Too much. Alarming in its agonizing, overwhelming rush. For someone so numb to tactile sensation on the day to day, full orgasm is testing of his limits enough. This, then, threatens to break him entirely. A fact Seventh very well knows. A fact he tested, before at the club. A fact Vito used, long before him, for the same reasons. Cain spasms and cries out, jerks immediately to try to stop him. But Seventh wraps a hand around his throat and leans, forcing him down against the bed in the same position from that night. His strength is inarguable, unconquerable. He pins the blonde there with a crushing force, and he continues. Stroking him long and rough, following the way his hips jerk and writhe to never lose the touch. He swirls the flat of his thumb against the human’s cockhead, teasing the sensitive tip, delighting in the way he panics and thrashes. He is too choked to beg or protest. Sevenths’s grip compresses his windpipe, his veins. Blocking the air and the blood, sealing with finality what the scores of jagged claw marks up his side would have done slowly.

It is meant as a sweet send off. A sadistic one. He holds the blonde down by his throat and toys with his cock, playing with it until it is stiffening again in a rush of confused blood. Seventh laughs, rapidly dancing fingers over his head until every sensation burns with an unbelievable agony. Cain kicks and writhes until Seven invades the space between them again, pressing and interlocking until there is no room to squirm left. It is there, when all ways to move against it are exhausted, he most enjoys himself. He watches the human’s coloring face. Watching his cock twitch in violent, swollen spasms. He thinks to himself the briefest regret that he is not inside the smaller, feeling him seize and tighten from the inside out. But, Seventh consoles himself, there is always next time. And they will, he is positive now, have a next time.

For this one, he takes what he can get from the end of the show. The dying of the light in the blonde’s eyes. The coursing of his blood hot and fast from the wounds up his side. The frantic, rushing dancing of his rock hard length as it is teased relentlessly. Up to his very last moment, Seventh slicks fingers against and around him. Teasing each final second with a wash of pleasure to match. He continues, long after the hands trying to bite nails at his armored wrist fall away limp. Until it is for certain, that the human is silent and gone. When he pries his hand off the smaller’s throat finger by finger, he almost expects it to be immediate. It is not.

Instead, Seventh is left to disengage slowly. To surrender the bruise-ringed throat, the overstimulated cock, the body still weeping cum and blood out onto the sheets. He pulls away, and waits a short while, before becoming bored of it. After a minute more of strained patience, he rises with a sigh and lumbers off to start a shower.

He wonders, as he waits for the water to heat, how long it will take for the blonde to recover.

He doesn’t know the rules of immortality, especially of such a human variety. He hopes it isn’t much longer, before stepping in to wash off. 


	4. The First Decision

He awakes gasping, fighting against a hold that is no longer there against his throat. 

The thrashing is momentary. The realization comes swiftly. He is used to this, to some degree. Experienced enough in the nature of his condition to pass through stages of panic and confusion in moments rather than minutes. 

Sitting up, Cain heaves deep breaths. He looks himself over, despite knowing what he will find. The bruises are gone. His shoulder is smooth, save for the crusting of dried blood. His side is smeared and sticks to the sheets as he raises, and the smell of sex is cloying all over. He’ll need to strip the bed. See about a new mattress. Get a shower.

Things catch up to him in time with his mind making new errands ahead of himself. It’s in the same moment he understands the gravity of the situation that he sees the man looming in the bathroom doorway. 

Seventh. Cain still doesn’t know his name, his real name, nor did he ever give his own.

He supposes it doesn’t really matter. Once you kill someone after fucking them, names are more a formality than a requirement.

Seventh grunts somewhat, once their eyes meet. He shifts a bit, moving to stand from his lean on the doorway. He hooks a thumb over one still bare shoulder. 

“Ran a bath when you started closing up.” He explains. There is a towel around his waist. His hair is damp. Cain isn’t sure what to make of that measure of time. He isn’t sure what to make of a lot of things. The luxury of unpacking and acting on his feelings is largely robbed from him, and in place of impulse and emotion he simply moves to peel himself out of bed and stand.

Seventh clears his throat, once Cain is on his feet. When Cain glances, Seventh points towards him, to the side. He turns, to see sheets still sticking to his skin with congealed blood. He struggles to tear them off himself, tossing them back onto the bed with a sigh.

“So it’s true.” Seventh comments, as Cain drags himself by him and into the bathroom. The demon lingers, still unglamoured and exposed for the plated, dark-eyed thing he is. 

“Are you not eager to run and tell your boss?” Cain says, snidely. He’s surprised to find the bath is actually run full, curling with steam still, bubbles pushed to the corners to indicate soap added in. It suggests a level of consideration he’s not entirely comfortable with. He moves to the tub's side before reaching into it and opening the drain. Seventh doesn't comment as it starts to empty. Cain moves to turn the shower on, cranking the hot water up to a marker made on the wall by the knob.

Seventh doesn’t take his leave, despite the cold tone and refused bath. He transfers his post from the doorway to the sink, lingering by it with arms crossed. He stares. They always stare. As if nothing immortal has ever existed before. Though, Cain knows better. Antedilluvian demons, demigods, conceptuals - they tended to live forever. But not humans. He was a rare case.

“I paid for the hour.” Seventh remarks with a shrug.

Cain shoots him an unamused glare. Seventh stares back, unapologetic but similarly lacking in any smug or self-satisfied expression. He is deadpan, plain. Back to how he seemed before the.. everything in bed.

Cain steps under the water once it starts to spill steam, unreactive entirely to it as he turns his back to the showerhead and pulls the curtain around.

“You felt my cock inside you?” Seventh abruptly asks.

Startled by the question, Cain jerks, glaring at the man’s silhouette through the curtain in shock and offense.

Seventh is either oblivious or uncaring of the response, continuing, “And when I bit your shoulder? But not the water. Or the sheets. Or-”

“Why are you still here?” Cain interrupts him, abruptly switching attention to scrubbing blood off his side.

Seventh pauses for a heartbeat. “You were nicer, in the lobby.”

“Yes. Before you _killed me_.”

“But you can’t really die. You know this. I knew it.” Seventh shrugs.

Cain shoots another ineffectual dirty look at the shower curtain, before continuing to scour his skin. Eager to remove all traces of the experience that were left.

When he says nothing in response, Seventh takes the opening to go on.

“I had to be sure. That you would come back.”

“I thought you already knew?” Cain grumbles, barely audible over the water.

“It was a theory. Dom said so himself. I had to test it.”

Cain makes note of the name, but lashes out instead with, “Then put a bullet through my brain! Cut my throat! Merde, just choke me without the- the- everything else!”

Seventh listens without interrupting, but ultimately replies in the same passive dullness, “This way was more fun.”

“Glad you enjoyed yourself.” Cain hisses, scrubbing a little too hard at himself. There’s no wounds to reopen, but he can tell by the red streaks he’s working himself too hard.

Something in Seventh’s tone is changed when he asks, “You didn’t?”

Cain can’t immediately decipher if he sounds hurt, confused, or offended. Grimacing, Cain sighs and shakes his head.

“We are not doing this. You got what you wanted. Pay for the extra hour or get out.”

He thinks he’s won, when Seventh pulls from his place and leaves the bathroom. There’s the sound of clothes shifting in the other room, and Cain takes it as signal to minorly relax with his efforts to get clean.

It’s in the middle of the process that Seventh returns. Cain snaps over to jerk the curtain aside, just to watch Seventh slap the clip of bills from earlier down on the sink counter. Cain blinks. 

“Wh..” The confusion ebbs quickly into suspicion. Eyes narrow. He tenses. “What do you want?”

Seventh just stares at him, unreadable. “To have a conversation without you being so difficult.”

Cain doesn’t ease any. “Information gathering.” He clarifies for the demon.

Seventh doesn’t move or comment, giving no response to agree to deny. 

After a moment of holding the other in a bitter stare, Cain resigns and closes the curtain back around. He returns to his work, spending more time looking for traces left on him than digging at his skin further.

“Fine.” He relents. “You have an hour. Do what you want with it.”

Seventh glances around, before lowering the lid and taking the toilet as an improvised chair for the interrogation. Settling in there as best able, he recrosses his arms and leans back. He is not shy about his posture, especially with the curtain dividing them.  Then, he cuts straight to business.  “You’re immortal.”

“Yes.”

“Since when?”

“Since my pact. You should know this. It is why you are here, is it not? You saw the brand at the club.” On reflex at mentioning it, a hand drifts. Seventh follows the outline through the curtain, watching Cain reach towards the back of his neck. 

Seventh sounds minorly impressed. “You noticed?”

Cain shakes his head some. “Non. But it makes the most sense. It was meant to be a human event. But you, clearly, are not. So you must have noticed it.”

There is slight nodding, and a lapse of quiet, as Seventh considers something in that.

“Your pact.. It’s with the trafficker. Masi.”

“Yes.” Cain offers no further explanation or context. 

Seventh is slow to catch on. “You’re old, for a male whore. You must have gotten it young.”

“That is not a question.” Cain is quick to point out. Seventh is not very good at this game. “But no. We formed our pact a little over a year ago, I think.”

“You think?”

“I am still sorting the timeline. We did not have access to signs of the dates, in transit. We had clocks for understanding schedules and clients, but.. Days had a way of becoming one. I believe it was a year and a half, or so. From home to here. So, a year or so.”

“He took you quick, then.” Seventh remarks. It takes him a while, to recognize the silence as signal Cain is not going to humor him again. Comments are not questions. Rolling his eyes some, Seventh asks directly, “So you spent a year in transit? How? He just transfer you around the country? Road trip?”

There is a lapse of nothing for another moment again, before Cain abruptly snaps the curtain half-aside once more. He is glaring openly, dripping and flushed from the heat. He has Seventh’s full attention. “You are not that stupid. You know who he is and what he does, and _how_ he does it. You and your boss would not be so bold as to come here, not knowing these things. If you want to see how much I will tell you about him, ask it directly. Do not try to be subtle. You are very bad at it.”

Seventh pauses there, staring with brows raised and an expression that is just vaguely identifiable as surprised. After a moment, he frowns and shrugs somewhat indifferently. “Yeah. I get that a lot.” He agrees. 

Cain rolls his eyes, retreating back to the shower, desperately trying to actually get clean around the harassment. He’s fussing with the shampoo when Seventh finally speaks again.

“Alright, then. How much are you willing to tell us?”

Cain stares at the shampoo bottle, hand hovering over it to pump some out. There is hesitation. Consideration. Then, as Seventh waits for a new harsh response, the water cuts.

Cain pulls back the curtain in full, staring at him irritated but not outright hostile.

He holds out a hand. Seventh quirks a brow at it.

“Get me a towel. Since you won’t leave me to shower in peace.” 

Seventh scoffs like it’s funny, before standing and unwinding the one from his waist.

For a moment, they stand like that. Staring each other down. Seventh is expressionless but something in his burning white gaze seems distinctly self-satisfied. Cain spends a few long moments dripping in place before giving up and stepping out, shoving past the demon to get the other towel on the rack beyond him.

Seventh shrugs, moving to drape his towel around his neck instead, waiting patiently for his answer. Cain takes his time, raking the towel against his hair before wrapping it around himself. He takes the money off the sink counter, thumbing a few of the bills before getting the jist that they were all high number and altogether entirely too much for a booking. Despite this, he takes the fold, clip and all, and retreats back to the bedroom.

“Keep asking your questions.” Cain tells him on the way to the couch.

Seventh stalls in the center of the room. “What happened to how much you’re willing to tell us?”

“I guess you will know when I don’t tell you something.”

Seventh narrows his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching briefly in what could have been a grimace or a smirk, too brief to tell. “Well, I’m not very good at subtle.” He reminds in a mocking tone. “So how will I know when you’re not telling me something?”

Cain looks at him, and for the first time since the whole exchange went sideways on him, he grins crooked. It’s weak, compared to the ones before. But it’s there, as he shrugs tauntingly. Seventh wants to hate the response. But he can’t entirely bring himself to.

“Fine.” Seventh accepts it, moving to the desk with his clothes still folded atop it. He exchanges the towel for his shirt first, slowly starting on pulling on and relayering his suit. “Then I guess there’s no point in asking you directly how loyal you are to him?”

Cain is at first struck by the utter bluntness of it. Seventh had the tact of a sledgehammer. But for how jarring it was, it was almost somewhat.. refreshing. Still, he can’t stop himself from scoffing and shaking his head reflexively at the question. “He is my owner. Beyond that, we are pacted. There is no defying him.”

Seventh doesn’t stop in pulling his slacks on. But he does keep eye contact through it, the expressionlessness of his features driving it home more when he zips up, buttons, and levels seriously, “But if you could? If given the chance. Would you?”

The room falls still with a quiet that feels dangerous. Cain prickles with a paranoid sense of every wall having ears. Seventh continues to stare at him. Burning holes through him with the bright white of his eyes. He awaits an answer, expectant and unwavering.

Cain isn’t sure what to say.

Maybe once, early in his time, he might have.. But that was a long time ago, compared to who and where he was now. 

Now.. it’s almost hard to consider. He struggles to wrap his head around it.

“Why?” He offers back instead.

Seventh seems distinctly frustrated by the question in turn to a question, but he tamps it down. Enough to reply, “You know why. You know what I’m asking.”

Cain remains quiet. He is perfectly still, save for his hand on the armrest. His nails are digging into the leather white-knuckled. He isn’t aware.

The seconds stretch like minutes until Cain finally says, “What about the others?”

He expects Seventh to play dumb, or get dodgey. But he’s immediate on the point. Prepared with, “They would be free. Dominic isn’t interested in them. He’s only interested in _you_.”

Cain takes another long drag to digest that. 

“What for?”

At that, Seventh shakes his head and shrugs. Cain can tell the honesty in it when he tells him, “I don’t know.”

When things fall quiet again, Seventh finishes dressing. He dips briefly aside to knot his tie, fasten his cufflinks, and lace his shoes. When he comes back, Cain isn’t sure if he really feels any closer to an answer. But he understands the expectation for one. 

So he inhales, pulling himself up to sit straight and level an unblinking stare at the demon.

“I am willing to negotiate. With Dominic. Directly.”

Seventh holds his gaze. Gauges that. Then, he nods once.

“I’ll let him know.” With just that in way of parting, he goes for the door.

Cain doesn’t stop him. He watches Seventh’s skin flicker on the way out, smoothing to a human softness before the door closes behind him. When it clicks shut and Cain is well and truly alone, he still does not relax. He feels every wall like a sentient force, watching him. Knowing what he’s just done.

He looks to the money clip on the side table. His nails threaten to puncture the leather armrest.

He knows, before any further deals with new demons, he has to find a way to explain his healed state and unplanned booking to Vito. Judging by the man’s response to every pull on their pact prior for recovery, Cain expects him at any moment.


End file.
